Solivagant
by AsMuchAsIEverCould
Summary: Hamish Watson-Holmes was a twenty-year-old lit major with an unfortunately average intellect and no clue how to get on with life. When his old friend leaves for work and asks him to take care of his very pregnant and hormonal fiancee, Hamish feels it's part of the obligatory brotherhood pact to agree. However as Sherlock decides to intervene, he knows his life might as well break.
1. Chapter 1

**Oh, hello again! I am back. I might have mentioned before—I'm too tired and lazy to check—that I was thinking of starting a parent!lock fic, and this is it. I might make it several chapters, because I have quite a few ideas of where it could be taken with British Hamish and his very pregnant and American almost-sister-in-law-kind-of-but-not-really Ida, but if not or if people don't like, I could always just make it a two or three shot and leave it at that. (If you haven't noticed, I am a big fan of short names that begin with a vowel—Isla, Iris, Ida, Ace, Alecto, Opal, Elaine, Everett, etc.) How fast I update will usually depend on how well it receives. (hint-hint)**

**A couple of things to say: I am new the parent!lock fandom, and whereas I don't know all of the fanon, I do know that people generally call Hamish Watson-Holmes the son of Sherlock and (in this case) a-mystery-woman-that-you-don't-know-yet-but-I-do-because-I'm-evil-muahahahaha, raised by Sherlock and John. People always gave Hamish some sort of super intellect and I thought: Why? Why does Hamish need to have some big intellect? Wouldn't it be so much more realistic and interesting if he was average? I mean, we all know that the Holmes-smarticals had spread throughout the family, but I like to think of Sherlock having an average boy to even him out like John did. And with that said, I give you this chapter.**

**Rickham Public Library is a place I made up, and in case you didn't see or haven't read my Hunger Games fanfiction, it is a combination of Anastasia's and Ace's last names, because, again, I am essentially a lazy and tired person.**

**As always, I have two (maybe three…?) other fics (Two HP's and a HG) on my profile as well as a link to my NaNoWriMo currently up on Wattapad… and… I think that is all? Yes. Yes, that is all.**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

* * *

Hamish Watson-Holmes was startled awake by his very pregnant, very hormonal flatmate opening the door to the study and loudly pulling out a chair. Ida had been of the pleasant side of her pregnancy up until a week ago when Link left for Colorado to read paperwork, go to book signings, and do important things that authors naturally _have_ to do. Since then, something must have snapped in her. It had been constant questions, nightmares, and late night conversations when the baby was kicking too hard for her to sleep. Hamish had been spread so thin over work and taking care of his brother's fiancée that basic bodily needs had taken a second to everything else. That said, it wasn't surprising to either of them he'd fallen asleep in the middle of a chapter.

"Go to bed, Hamish. You're working yourself too hard."

"There is no such thing as working too hard nowadays. Besides, why are _you_ up? The baby?"

Ida sighed and leaned into him, pressing her nose at the juncture where his neck met his shoulder. "You're cold. Did you leave the window open again?"

"I can't work in the heat."

"You also can't work when you're hungry or tired or stressed; don't you know that? Besides this is a book. This is supposed to be nice and relaxing, just like sleep. Which, by the way, you haven't had enough of, and don't you dare deny it."

There was no use in fighting Ida. She was stubborn, even more so seven months in, and he was honestly looking for an excuse to go hide in his bedroom for a few hours before work the next morning. Time to himself was little to none, and it was especially sad for Hamish, who needed hours to recharge after a simple day out or a long conversation.

He shut down his computer and left Ida in the study, going to his room before asking one last time if she needed anything and was surprisingly denied. It was just breaking dawn when he collapsed onto his bed. Work wasn't until two later that day, so he fell asleep comfortably in knowing he would not be needed.

* * *

But he was needed. When noon came around, Hamish woke for the second time that day to Ida calling his name in kitchen. He took a deep breath, relishing in the comfort of his mattress while he still had it before hoisting himself up to meet her.

"Yes?"

"I feel so bad for waking you," she said, sounding close to tears. Ida was fully dressed in the only clothes that seemed to fit her anymore (a long white jumper and leggings, reliably stretchy), white-blonde hair tied in a messy knot at her neck, and boots resting on the floor close by. It was not the first time this happened.

"Not enough to not do it," he teased, leaning down to help her with her shoes.

"I'm so big! I can't even put my boots on, Hamish. Please tell me this is normal."

Ever since she found out the news, he'd been bombarded with medical questions, the "is this normal," "what should I eat," and "what can I expect" of everyday life that she didn't have the time to consult a real doctor with. He had to constantly remind her he was a lit major, and that an expert would be more reliable. Ida, however, did not trust those of Gregory Hostpital as much as she trusted Hamish, someone who grew up with an army doctor as a father. She had some kind of perceived notion that Hamish was the only one who could give her the answers to anything from cooking, to pregnancies, to money. Not that Hamish minded. Much.

"You're in your third trimester. Of course it is normal. You're just a little big, that's all."

"My belly parts the crowd in the deli."

Hamish quirked a smile. "I bet they let you cut the line, then."

"You're not very good at jokes," she huffed, but ran a hand through his hair in apology. "And yes, they do."

He got up, brushing the dust off his knees. "Don't feel bad for waking me. I needed to get ready for work, anyway."

"Liar. It takes you three minutes to get ready, not two hours."

"Just trying to diffuse the tension-have you heard from Link?"

"No," she huffed, "Haven't heard from him all week, actually. Long distance calls and all of that-long distance relationship, actually."

"You were the one who wanted to live in London, whereas he was happy to stay in Colorado. You also knew he had the book deal there, and you knew that not everything could be handled over the phone nor through faxing. It just doesn't always work out the way we plan."

She laughed and took his hand, using it for balance to stand again and not letting go when she was steady.

"Let me come to work with you today," she said, mouth pressed in a thin line.

"No."

She threw her hands up. "No? _No_? Hamish do you have any idea what it is like to sit here all day and have people come over, commenting on how pregnant I am as if I don't already know? I want to get out! I want to go to the library and spend the day reading Shakespeare, Yeats, and Tolkien, and I want to watch you stock shelves, and I want to do something!"

"I just—I want—"

What Hamish really wanted was alone time. No one ever came to the library, and since the school year for any local Universities just ended, the only people who'd be there would be a few workers, like Hamish, and the people who liked to read for fun, also like Hamish. He was guaranteed a quiet work shift filled with books, and that was more than he could have ever asked for.

"I promise to stay out of your hair."

"You're obviously lying, but hell. C'mon. We'll stop and get you some chips if you want."

"Oh, I knew I liked you!"

* * *

"Some people think I use my pregnancy as an excuse to eat, but that's not true. I'd be eating anyway. I just like food. It makes me happy."

Hamish smirked and stole one of her chips. "One day your metabolism is going to catch up with you."

Ida stared at him, the 'are-you-kidding-me' clear in her eyes. "Seriously? Look at me, Hamish. It already has. Pretty much shot that horse in the face."

"Clearly one chip too many."

She punched him playfully in the arm and laughed.

They pulled up at Rickham Public Library fifteen minutes earlier than he was needed, but twenty minutes later to his usual arrival time. As Hamish decided on one of the many empty parking spots, a black car swiveled around and took it.

"What a jerk!" Ida yelled, hitting her fist on the arm rest. "Yell at him when he comes out-no, wait. I'll do it. No one hits a pregnant lady."

"Way to stand up for feminism," he mumbled, but otherwise had gone alarmingly silent. Ida did not notice his lack of reaction at first-he was generally a quiet person, only feeling the need to speak in a conversation if he had something valuable to contribute. Silence was never odd for Hamish. He went days without communication, content in his own world of books, locked away in the glass study and working on something Ida didn't dare ask about in fear of disrupting him. She took him as an introvert-not that there was anything wrong with that, but sometimes she had difficulty deciphering when he was upset and when he was just recharging after a long day. This was one of those times.

"Hamish?" she asked tentatively.

His blue eyes darted to her from where they had been fixed on the black car. "Hm? Oh, er, no worries. I saw another one around back."

Ida didn't bother saying that nearly every other spot on the lot was empty, and it was not necessary to go all the way around back again. Something was not right, but she decided it was better for him not to poke and prod.

Once inside Hamish immediately disappeared into an office she wasn't allowed in, so Ida went over towards a small standing of books and picked up _To Kill a Mockingbird. _She leafed through the pages before deciding to take it back to one of the tables. A few minutes later, Hamish returned face red and hair disheveled.

"Is there something wrong?"

"I-sure." He squeezed one of her shoulders as if to prove it and said, "That's a good book. You'll like it."

"What's got you all... edgy?"

"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I suppose. Just stay here I'm going to stock some shelves, yeah?"

Ida swung her legs back and forth as she read, sometimes humming to herself. Rickham Public Library was, in Hamish's opinion, the most beautiful place in the world, and Ida felt she had to vigorously agree. The ceiling was high, topped with a dome and etched with carvings of people and chariots, winged horses, and Gods with fire. Archways made for most of the doors, long Ionic columns on both sides, and a glittering marble floors. Ida remembered back from her eighth grade field trip to Washington D.C., and she couldn't help but make the distinction with this library to—what was it? The Library of Congress? Or was it that Capital building? Her thoughts wandered as she tried to name what is was about this place that made her feel so at home. For Hamish, it was the books. For Ida, it was the monuments she'd visited back in America, the way she remembered the White House to look. How long had it been since she was back in the states…?

It was silent except for her voice and the sound of books against the shelves as Hamish placed them. No one was there that day, not that anyone would have wanted to get up before three on a day off. Each sound, movement, and clatter rang through the building and reverberated on the walls-so it was surprising and loud when the door opened again and the sound of voices and footsteps erupted.

"Sherlock-I-"

"Quiet, John. He's in here."

Hamish's shelving paused for a moment before picking up normally, as if he hadn't heard the two men. _Sherlock? What a peculiar name_, Ida thought idly, turning the page.

Under the white archway, the two men appeared. They were about as opposite each other as two people could be. One was tall with a halo of dark curls, pointed cheekbones, and a long trench coat, whereas the other one was short with neatly trimmed fair tresses, and a cotton sweater.

Hamish continued to shelve, though clearly having heard the men. Wasn't he going to say something?

"Uh, hello?" Ida said to them. The taller man, who'd been staring at the shelves, trying to get a peek at Hamish, whipped his head around. His eyes raked her, from the swell of her stomach to the book in her hand. She almost felt the need to straighten her back or turn away.

It was the blond one who spoke-John, going by the voice. "Ah, hi. We were looking for-"

"There is no need to look, John, just to wait. Clearly he doesn't want to come out and greet us," Sherlock said slowly.

Ida cocked an eyebrow. "So you're not looking for books?"

"Not on the agenda, no," Sherlock said.

There was a sigh, and Hamish stepped out. "Hi."

"Care to talk to the person who gave you life?"

"Not if you're cross, no."

John interjected. "Hamish, he's just frustrated. You know that." And then to Sherlock: "Don't be such an annoying dick."

"_I'm_ sorry, but may I ask who you are?" It was a rude thing to say, Ida was well aware, but the bickering she couldn't take. Gave life to him? Surely this man couldn't be-well it was very well possible now that she thought about it. They looked similarly-the dark curls, the big blue eyes, the bow of the lip. The only difference she could see was that Hamish's face wasn't as chiseled and prominent-he was, Ida hated to say, almost girly, graceful and skinny with the childhood innocence still stick in his face. Maybe he'd inherited that from his mother?

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said with an air of pride. "Hamish's _father_. And _don't_ tell me-you're Lincoln's fiancée, correct?"

Her chin jutted out. This man was _very_ cross. "Hamish, you told me your father was an Army Doctor."

He gave her a withering look and sat down at that table, dragging a hand through his hair-he had a tiny silver scar at his hairline usually concealed by his fringe. Ida wondered vaguely where Hamish had gotten it. "That would be John."

"John Watson here," the other said. He had a sort of crooked smile, like Link.

"That's impressive. Where?"

"Afghanistan, actually."

"You must be very brave."

"One would have to be, to run around with my father," Hamish muttered. Ida detected a note of bitterness, and so, apparently, had Sherlock.

"Well what about you?" he said, crossing his arms. "No texts, no visits, not even a bloody phone call. Why?"

"Why _not_?" he yelled. The sound bounced around the room. "I mean-_God!_"

Sherlock snorted. "_God_, he says, John. _God._"

"When did _you_ become such a parent?"

That shut him up. Sherlock stared, lips pressed together, at his son. For a second, a flicker of sadness passed over Hamish's face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come and Ida wondered whether or not it had been anger or sympathy instead. Another similarity: Hamish and his father were both unreadable.

"How about we talk about this at home?" John suggested, reaching to pull Sherlock away.

"I have a home, actually. With Ida and Link."

"Well then," Sherlock smiled—a devilish, cunning, Cheshire smile that cut his face in half. "We'll see you there."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! Thanks to those who followed the story/me. I'm glad you liked it enough to hit the button. No real new announcements, just a thanks. As always, my nano is linked on my profile, and I have other fanfictions, too.**

**xAsMuchAsIEverCould**

* * *

Hamish wanted so badly to leave London and take Ida with him so that his father's face would no longer seep into his consciousness. Perhaps he might have gone to Wales or Scotland or maybe back to America so Ida would be happy again—no matter how hard he tried, Hamish knew he could never make her content like Link could. Ida had always been the type of person to try to hide her nastiness, but could never completely.

But he couldn't leave London, not even with a valid reason, not even if he didn't need to go back to their flat, and not even if he hadn't built a home with Ida and Link in their tiny home with their tiny hearts. He had to stay and deal with his fathers and try to get them to leave in the upmost respectful way while his happiness withered, helpless, and Ida continued to slowly deteriorate into a mind-bottling despair without that love of her life and meager support for her unborn child.

It was dreadfully poetic.

He did not stop himself from being selfish, though. He stacked all the books, reorganized the ones that had been misplaced, dusted the cases, sent out overdue emails, and then, finally, when he could not put it off any longer and Ida was half out of her wits with impatience, Hamish complied all of his things and they took off together.

"Why don't we go out to the movies? There's that one out about the writer in Paris, and it looks—"

"Hamish, you hate going out," Ida deadpanned.

"Just thought we could do something fun for a change."

"Don't lie to yourself, and don't lie to me!" she snapped. "How could you not tell me your father was coming up?"

"Oh, as if I had any freaking clue! Ida it may have not crossed your mind, by my father and I don't get along, and I sure as hell want him here a lot less than you do!"

"He just seems angry, Hamish, and I can see why. When was the last time you called him? When was the last time you talked to him? I bet he was just worried, for Christ's sake."

"He wasn't worried, Ida. He was mad because when I promised to never talk to him again, I stuck with that promise, and he expected like anyone else that I was bluffing. He's mad because he was _wrong_." Hamish was speeding, dodging cars, rude hand gestures and profanities in his wake and only feeling the need to be as far away from Ida, his father, and anyone else who questioned him as soon as possible. He was distinctly aware that he was not going in the right direction, and not even sure of what direction he was going at all.

"You think so little of him?"

"Of course you don't understand, Ida. You love family, tradition, marriage, and kids way too much to know that it's not so happy-go-lucky on the other side. My family wasn't happy like yours. For God's sake, Ida. I love you, but you can be so narrow-minded."

She threw her hands up. "Well fine then, explain!"

Hamish was so angry he could barely hear her request. His driving was becoming sloppy, shaking like his hands and shoulders. In a moment of desperate precaution, he took a sharp turn into some kind of parking lot and turned on her—something he'd sworn not to do, something he promised himself (and Link) he would control. After all, she did not deserve to be yelled at, and usually Hamish never yelled, never came close— only looked angrily and pressed his lips together. However, as soon as he had started, the words came tumbling out his mouth in long strings, thoughts, and complaints that he'd hoarded in the back of his chest so he wouldn't have to share his feelings to anyone.

"He's the only—_fucking_—_Consulting_—_Detective_—in the world, Ida! He's _smart _and _clever_, and I'm _not_! I don't have maps in my head or runes or _anything_ that would impress _anyone_! And I'm _still_ the only Holmes person in the world to be so startlingly and irrevocably _average_. My father can't be around anyone with a measly intellect, and he's always _fucking pushing and pushing_ for me to understand, and I just CAN'T get it no matter how hard or long I work!" His breath hitched and picked up again. "Ida, I study English Literature. In my father's eyes, I'm a disgrace, even if he doesn't say it out loud. We're talking about the guy who saved millions of lives in his career including faking his own death. How embarrassing it must be to him to have me as a son."

He was so sure—_so_ sure that he'd never have to tell anyone, and those words he'd locked away would never have a reason to live. He'd gone to college and then university, earned average grades, and met his roommate, his brother in all ways but blood, then Ida, who he swore protect and care for while Link was away, and he'd thought that maybe there would never be a reason to feel inferior again, but there was. And of course Sherlock showed up knowing everything about his life, and it was apparent that maybe he'd never escaped at all.

"Hamish, you are smarter in my eyes than anyone could ever be, even Link." She raised a hand to brush it through Hamish's curls. "But don't tell him I said that."

Though his hands, Hamish gave a small laugh and sniffed. "Ida, you barely know me."

And it was true he'd barely told her anything—his mother, the fall, John—and yet he felt he told her more than anyone else in the world.

* * *

They ended up lost, taking wrong turns and back roads and finally ended up in some very strange park with a lot of grass and an a gorgeous water display. They walked hand in hand atop the grass. It was cold despite the new summer, and the wind pulled their hair back. When they were close to the shore, Ida took off her shoes and put her feet in, swinging them back and forth, and Hamish stayed cross-legged on the bank, completely dry.

"Have you guys thought of names?" he asked, leaning back on his arms and letting his head fall back.

"Link was trying to convince me of something weird like Ryder from that movie or Lorenzo like his Dad, but if it's a girl, I was hoping for something a bit more classic: Lauren, Kelly, Elizabeth."

"I like Elizabeth," Hamish admitted. "Like Elizabeth Bennet in _Pride and Prejudice_. She is my favorite female protagonist."

"Never read it," she admitted a bit regretfully, lying down. The sky was just starting to turn a purple color. "Want to share?"

So he told her about the Bennet family, of the unexpected romance, and of Fitzwilliam Darcy, the betrayals, and of the misinterpretations of first impressions.

"That's what it was supposed to be called: _First Impressions_. '_Pride and Prejudice'_ came after.

"Mmm, Mr. Darcy seems charming."

"He's actually a bit awkward," Hamish laughed.

It was quiet, and he guessed it was only four o'clock, but there was no one at that park anymore, and he didn't dare move a muscle—too relaxed.

"You know," she said, almost like an afterthought, "we agreed on one thing: If it's a boy, were naming it Hamish."

Suddenly, his throat seemed too tight.

* * *

It was late by the time they found their way back home. On the way they had stopped for food at an eighties diner where Ronda, the hostess, flirted shamelessly with both Ida and Hamish, and then tripped on her roller-skates. Whereas Ida could not drink, Hamish had a half a beer and then ate to, as people say, wash away the effects. After a water bottle and a full plate of spaghetti, he felt normal and safe enough to bring Ida home. They barged in the door, giggling, laughing, tripping on their own two feet, to his father sitting in their loveseat, hands pressed together under his chin and eyes fixed at the wall opposite them. John was reading the newspaper on the sofa.

Hamish stopped laughing. "What are you two doing here?"

"Have you been drinking tonight, Hamish?" Sherlock asked.

"What? I—no!"

"Yes, you were. I can tell."

It wasn't even that he'd said; it just the way he did it: calm; slow; indifferently; as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I would appreciate it if you got the hell out of our house!" Ida yelled.

"Can you call this house?"

When his father was cross he always said very rude things, whether he meant them or not. In this case he didn't, considering Hamish had grown up in a flat very similar to the one they were in, but it still stung.

"We'll call the police, Dad. Just leave."

Something like smile played on his lips. "Hamish, we are the police."

"No, you're not. You work with them, but you are not an officer, and I'm sure that Lestrade would have no problem escorting you out!"

John coughed awkwardly. "Hamish, maybe we should—"

"Leave? I agree."

"Are you forgetting," Sherlock said, loudly at first and then slowing out, "that this flat is being paid by a fund by _me_? That it was my work and my profession that got you this money in the first place?"

At that Hamish didn't know what to do. He picked up his bag and then took Ida's, slinging it around his shoulders. He was in his bed before the clock struck midnight.

* * *

At three A.M. Hamish felt his bed depress.

"They're working on the sofa, Hamish. _Working._"

Hamish sighed and rubbed his eyes, trying to sit up. His blanket was pinned down where Ida sat on it. "Why are you awake?"

"Nightmares," she admitted ruefully before climbing under the covers. It was not unusual for Ida to sneak into his bed at night. Without Link there she felt very lonely, and told him she just wanted someone there next to her so that the disappearance of her love didn't feel so gaping in her chest. She was like a little sister, so scared of her own night visions and so angry at the world for giving them to her. There was also the fact that she was five years older than him, but still. They were comfortable with each other, so much so that sharing a bed was no more than a necessary action to ease the pain. _Isn't loneliness such a strange thing? _she'd asked him the first time he'd heard her open the door to his room. _It's almost like there isn't anything wrong. It's just that there is something missing. You can live without things and people, that's a fact, but with loneliness it's almost like a brainwashing that tells you it's not true. It tells you that without that one person in your life, than your life isn't really worth living. Such a bastard, loneliness is._

"My Dad was right. I shouldn't have drank tonight. I thought it was safe, but I was just being stupid. Link would have socked me right then and there."

"Link does stupid things all the time Hamish. You made a mistake, and I let you. Don't flatter yourself into thinking you're worse or better than anyone else in the world."

He thought for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. "Are they really working out there?"

"Really, really," she yawned, and was soon snoring into Hamish's chest. He tried not to move.

"That's them alright. Work, little play, no sleep for the wicked, and all of that," he said into the darkness. His ceiling just glared back at him. Hamish sighed and rested his head on Ida's, who'd breathing was soft and puffed against his shirt. He tried not to think of what would happen tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm pretty sure this chapter was constantly wavering between happy, sad, inconsistent, and angry, but after such a long hiatus filled with work and sleep and food, I think I might as well finally get it up. Hope you enjoy!**

**xAllison**

* * *

By the end of the week, Ida could see the father-son duo wasn't going to work. They ignored each other with grace and poise. Hamish left the house for most of the day and returned late at night, often taking Ida with him. They went to the library and the park, ate lunch in little bohemian cafés and frequented the outdoor street markets filled with vibrant scarves and pound-fudge, and often some scenic, drizzling rain.

Still, they returned every night with inside jokes and soft laughter, only to find the two detectives alone on the couch, discussing tactics, floor plans, and serial killers as easily as talking of the weather. Hamish alienated himself to the point where Ida was worried of leaving him. She followed him most everywhere and rambled about the baby until she realized he was too bored to reply.

As each day progressed, she could see him seeping into a personal catharsis only released when he was alone in his room, where no one could hear—or at least, Hamish thought no one could. Ida could pick out the mumblings through the door and thin walls every evening, and she did not doubt that Sherlock and John could also. No one said anything, though, and Hamish had the good grace to be silenced during those long, dreadful hours they were all cramped inside the flat. He was not one to pick fights or bring up pointless arguments. Despite his earlier wiles, Ida believed strongly that he was a pacifist, whereas she has to constantly fight the urge to punch the two men in a none-too-friendly area. It was Hamish's warnings that stopped her. Still, she could not keep from making snide comments when necessary. Sherlock was always following suit right after.

"How do you stay so calm!" she raved to him one morning, when John and Sherlock had left earlier that morning for coffee and the paper. "They're awful! Staying up all hours of the night, firing off guns at one in the morning, and all of the damage! Do you know that he broke my _mother's_ vase? Dame those men! No offense, Hamish, but they _suck. _Fucking police reports lying around and books and files. Ugh!"

Hamish hummed and continued to search the fridge. After a moment of contemplative silence, he huffed and started plucking out condiments at random.

"I would have thought you were more upset by this."

He hummed again, and Ida got to thinking of his rant a few days before in the car. She looked at him—_really_ looked at him—and tried to see what he had meant. She _thought_ she knew him. She hoped she still did. But what else could be hiding? Surely that calm face was not some sort of evil façade?

In the early hours of the morning, his curly fringe corkscrewed straight out from his forehead and his cheeks were bright red, imprinted from where he had laid on the pillow.

"You look like a girl," she said offhandedly. "But not in a bad way."

Hamish snorted and hopped onto the counter to read the label on a jar of jam.

"I have been thinking of a song for the wedding. When do you think that should be? I was never one for the hot months. Maybe after the baby is born, I could have a winter wedding, like an ice princess… Oh, that would be wonderful. Something old and classic, with lace and snow, and Elvis playing, or something? We could take out the old phonograph in the closet and listen to some of the vinyls to get a good idea."

Ida saddened slightly.

"What is it?" Hamish asked. "Is it Link?"

"He was supposed to be here by now," she said desolately, pulling at the sleeve of her shirt and trying to look like she wasn't as hurt or pissed as she was. Like usual, Hamish saw right through her. "Not that I mind. I get it. Fucking work and all that. It's not his fault."

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Hamish staring at her, eyes soft. "You can't be upset about this. He's going to be here soon. What he's trying to do is build a future for you and little Link down there, yeah? Why don't you ring him if you want to hear his voice?"

Ida shook her head and gave a smile. "Nah. He's in a meeting all day today. Let's just do something distracting."

In the end, they really did take out the phonograph and laid out the records in one long line to chose. Ida wanted so many different types of songs for the wedding, first dance, and reception. Everything from Eddie Arnold, to Elvis Presley, to Billy Joel.

"Piano Man," she said finally. "That song is the _shit_."

"Watch your mouth."

"This was my _song_. Literally. When I was little, my Dad was the coach of the high school football team, and we'd drive to the away games together when my mom was out at work, and it would get all dark. He'd play Piano Man, and we'd just sing and sing, and I remember asking him all these questions like 'What is tonic and gin?' and 'What does 'getting stoned' mean'. You know? Then we'd get to the games, and the team of all high school senior boys would let me throw around the football, and he said if I went easy on them, we'd listen to it on the way back."

"Your Dad will like to hear it at the wedding then," Hamish said conversationally. "I always liked Billy Joel."

She just smiled and fingered the rivets of the record. "Fucking _classic_."

* * *

The silence was broken at noon.

It started off slow, easy, in a way that when Ida first heard it, she didn't think much, and didn't bother to go see what was going on.

The story was this: Hamish was reading his new novel (a gift from Ida) in the parlor, but when Sherlock came home, John tugging in a pile of fliers behind him, he wanted Hamish to move.

"No," Hamish said calmly. "I want to read."

"I don't think you're _understanding_," Sherlock said irritably. "We need the space."

"You have the space in your own flat, remember? So I don't fully get what I'm not understanding."

"No, you wouldn't!" Sherlock snapped, clearly having had a bad day.

John interjected. "All right now, calm down. Hamish would you mind sharing?"

Hamish waved a hand of dismissal, and Sherlock sat down on the couch, mumbling something that sounded particularly like "Ungrateful, insolent, little…"

And it didn't seem like much, so Ida went back to her own business of sending an email to Link. But it got worse, as Holmes-family situations tended to do.

John's red wine sat on the very edge of the table, so close to falling off, but he didn't notice. He sat curled up on the couch, swallowed hole by a jumper too big for him, and his face was a little too red and his smile a little too wide for him to be completely sober.

"Careful," Hamish said from behind his novel.

"Mmm," John replied innocently.

But he was too intoxicated to fix it, and he was too far gone to see the glass topple over the side. Sherlock, in one quick, deft movement, caught the glass before it could shatter on the ground, but a few drops of red stained the carpet as a small reminder.

"Are you _kidding _me?" Hamish snapped, clearly having had a long day. "I just _told_ you to be careful."

"Did they spill something?" Ida called from the other room, keys still clicking under her clever fingers.

Hamish's voice was strained but loud. "Yeah! So stupid!"

"Stupid!" Sherlock scoffed. He'd stood up. "It's a stain. You have plenty of those around here, and I seriously doubt that one more will be so terrible for you. If you're really that agitated, I can assure you it is very easy to get out."

"That's not the point! And you know it! Are you just trying to dumb it down for me?"

"Don't be ridiculous Hamish! You've always been so _sensitive!_"

Hamish dug his hands into his hair, grabbing it by the roots, and pulled. "God! Why do you think?! I didn't want you _back_. When are you leaving? You don't belong here, with Ida and me."

"I gave you life. As far as I'm concerned, you don't have a choice but to be with me!"

"UGH. Now you want to? Now? What about those three years I thought you were six feet under? How about that? God, you're just like everyone says! Selfish, and conceited, and completely incapable of understanding the simplest of human emotions like love and forgiveness and a need for an _apology_."

There was a silence in which it literally rung with the echo of Hamish's wails reverberating off the walls.

"Is that what you want?" Sherlock asked, unable to keep the slightest sneer form his voice. There was sincerity in there too along with sadness, but those two emotions were underlying and virtually undetectable. "And _apology_ for saving your life?"

"I _wanted _an apology," Hamish said faintly. "I wanted one years ago, because it's baffling how someone could pretend to be dead for three years, to pretend to have committed suicide leaving the only two people who truly cared about you blaming themselves, and then just slowly work your way back into our lives without so much as a comment on it or an 'I missed you'. But no. I don't want an apology. Not anymore. I want you to leave. That's all I want now."

Sherlock moved his mouth silently, as if trying to say something that wouldn't come out, before shutting it with a crinkle of his nose. "John. Pack your things. We're going back to the flat. Call Ms. Hudson."

John sighed, pressing the bridge of his nose in between his forefinger and thumb. "You start first. I'll gather the files."

Sherlock nodded curly and went to the bathroom, where a large duffle bag sat with their clothes. When he left the room, the bathroom door slamming shut with a loud _bang!_

"Hamish—"

"Don't start with me, John. You're just as upset with him as I am."

He gave a disheartening look as he stood, hands balled up by his sides. The man was so short, he looked like a child again, a child with a very detailed and skilled military background.

"That was years ago. Don't you think I was mad, Hamish? When he came back, you were very young, and don't you deny it. I punched him over and over, and I beat the _shit_ out of your father, for all the pain you and I had been suffering—did you expect anything less? For the funeral, for the grief, for your nightmares and counseling…"

Hamish pursed his lips and hung his head, hoping to God that Ida was not listening, even though she was. She was being very quiet, knuckles in her mouth as she kept from speaking out. Because, _boy_, she had a lot to say. She _always _did.

"But your father wants you back now, and isn't that what you wanted."

"I used to want that," Hamish said quietly. "We both wanted that. You just forgive more easily."

John paused and then, picking up the briefcase from the coffee table, "You know he won't give up. He's just like that."

"I know."

"And you know you'll eventually give in?"

Hamish didn't answer, but everyone, even Ida, seemed to find the agreement in his silence.

* * *

Ida found herself in the bathroom when the day collapsed into the night, stars twinkling through the open window along with the cold air.

She sighed. The harsh lighting from above the sink made her look pale and sickly. When she looked down at her wrists, she could see the colorful spider web of veins through her fair skin.

She undressed slowly, sleepily, for her shower, letting the steam from the shower head fill the room and fog the mirror. When she was out, her blonde hair hung down her back in thick ropes. She took a towel and wiped the mirror clean so she could see her reflection through the water droplets streaming down the glass. She turned sideways so she could see the swell of her pregnant stomach more clearly.

If she had been like this three years ago, or maybe even two or one, she would have had a panic attack at the sight she received, all the fat that covered her stomach and the swell of her cheeks, feet, and hands. She traced the stretch marks that ran from the top of her tummy all the way down to her navel and shivered. She was never told as a child that stretch marks were natural. She remembered doing this exact thing when she was fifteen, sucking in the small fat on her stomach to see how skinny she could look, pulling back the skin of her big cheeks as a child in hopes to find what she saw on the television: pointed cheekbones; hollow cheeks; and a sharp jaw line. She never had that, especially now. And the small red marks that she used to see on the inside of her thighs, the bottom of her stomach—they didn't bother her anymore. She'd grown accustomed to stretch marks, but she wished, for her sanity's sake, for the wavering confidence she had all throughout middle and high school, that she'd been told earlier: they were a part of growing up.

And the worst part, was she was never an overweight child, but in the eyes of her friends, she was. Those fuckers.

Now, with her stomach too big for her to get her arms around, and her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, she could laugh at the puffiness of her pregnant body, knowing that when her son or daughter came out, it would be all worth it.

She giggled in excitement, dressing for sleep, and falling asleep contently, only to remember that Link's arms weren't there to wrap around her.

* * *

_They met in every different form of a cliché, a London library in one of the aisles. He was a second year student at the University studying English Literature and Creative Writing, tall, gaudy, and devilishly handsome. He had a crooked smile and brown eyes fringed with black lashes, fair hair cropped with an elegant grace no one she knew back home could achieve. That and he called her sweet words like 'darling' and 'love' and 'princess.' To think! Back home people called her 'bitch' and 'hoe' and 'babe,' degrading nick names she never could stand, so of course she fell over for the first guy to treat her with any respect. _

_The best part was he put up with her mouth and her anger._

_When she was fifteen, her biology teacher, a perky blonde lady who wore too much lipstick and didn't own a shirt that fit her right, told her that if she continued to yap her opinion and swear like a sailor, never having regards for people's emotions and not controlling her own, then she would never find a man to treat her like a 'proper lady'._

_Fucking look at her now._

"_How do you do?" were his first words to her. "The Great Gatsby. Ugh, what an amazing book. If only I could be that good."_

_She just kind of looked at him. Was it true? A cool, beautiful guy looking at her? It must have been a joke. His friends must be hiding in the next aisle. She'd heard of Link, of his friends and their pranks. She'd heard of their debauchery and their three a.m. parties and their overwhelming arrogance that people just passed off as confidence._

_BECAUSE WHO DOESN'T LOVE A CONFIDENT PERSON? _

_But no. It was true. There were no pranks or tricks or catches. He was there alone with a pile of text books in his hands, staring sheepishly at her with a fading smile as her lack of response grew in time. He probably thought she was deranged! But he didn't seem like a bad person, like she'd heard. He didn't seem like the kind of guy they described to him, the kind of guy who cheated on their girlfriends, and drank too much, and smoked pot just because they could._

_But then again, he'd only spoken a few words to her._

"_I'm not good at words," she finally said through her teeth. She could feel her face going red and hoped he wouldn't notice. He did._

"_Don't look so embarrassed," he joked, and it made her blush harder. "Hey, why don't you try out this one?"_

_He pulled the book on the top of the pile off, balancing the stack in his other hand, and pressed it into her hand. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde._

"_It's my favorite," he told her, a simple statement of fact. She now knew one thing about him, one thing more than any of her roommates did._

_Okay, so he was hot. Like really fucking hot, the kind of hot someone saw in a magazine, air brush and photoshop and all. There was no point in denying the absolute hotness of someone standing but two feet in front of her. When life handed someone beauty, was it a crime to admire that?_

"_Thanks," she mumbled weakly. And then, because she was probably forty different kinds of socially inept, she walked away, her hands shaking as they curled around the old book's fragile spine._


End file.
